


And the Pursuit of Happiness

by welcometoyourworld



Category: The West Wing
Genre: A Thousand And One Original Characters, F/F, Fluff and Mild Angst and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Josh engages with The Self challenge, M/M, Post-Canon, Santos Administration, Slow Burn, it's about the pining, mentions of Anxiety/Depression/PTSD, mlm/wlw solidarity, politics politics politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27537739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/welcometoyourworld/pseuds/welcometoyourworld
Summary: It's the first year of the Santos Administration, and now that he is more or less at the peak of his political career, Josh must finally reckon with all the parts of himself he kept hidden away in pursuit of success.OR: Santos’ fight for meaningful education reform is stymied by a war in Kazakhstan, the rise of the alt-Right, and a Chief of Staff engaging with The Self.
Relationships: Ainsley Hayes/Donna Moss, Josh Lyman/Sam Seaborn
Comments: 30
Kudos: 57





	1. Life, Liberty...

It’s been a long time coming. 

Years of playing political hardball, sleepless nights, debating and negotiating with people too caught up in their own agendas to listen, being tasked with the impossible and being expected to get it done by close of business.

Josh Lyman can’t quite remember the future he’d imagined for himself when he first came to Washington. He supposes he couldn’t really have predicted anything that’s happened in the last twenty years. It certainly didn’t include acting as Chief of Staff to the first Latino president in United States history. 

The last twelve months changed his entire world over—something he hopes will not happen again for at least another twelve months. He’d been in a career nosedive until he hit the campaign trail with Matt Santos. He knew the odds had been stacked against them, that next to no one believed they’d be able to pull off the political comeback of the last several decades. But they did it.

They won.

And now the road ahead is long, filled with uncertainty and new challenges, a Republican Senate, and a White House teeming with more new faces than familiar. But Josh is ready to face every problem head-on, to lead his new staff, and support his new president.

If he knows how to do anything, it’s how to work. 

This is his fresh start.

There is an unmistakable pep in his step as he walks into his corner of the West Wing on this chilly but sunny Monday morning. The first Monday after Santos’ inauguration. The first Monday of this administration. There’s an agenda for the day, of course, but it feels like the possibilities are endless.

His new assistant isn’t sitting at her desk yet, but that’s alright. Josh is early.

He takes out his new key and revels in the _clunk_ of the lock shifting, the satisfaction of pushing open the door to his new office.

“What the–” he breathes, taking in the mountain of folders and briefing books stacked haphazardly on the round table across from his desk, tarps crumpled up in front of a set of new brown leather couches, wires hanging from a void in the ceiling and the smell of fresh paint burning his nose.

“PAMELA!” 

The room, despite its south-facing windows and the bright morning outside, is claustrophobically dark. He tosses his backpack on his desk and tries to click the lamp on. He tugs on the power cord and pulls it right up from the floor; he shakes the computer mouse but the screen remains dark. 

He flings the black-out curtains back and opens the windows to start filtering the pungent air and sees the walls have been painted a green that’s bordering on a deep charcoal. His office has become a dungeon of darkness over the weekend and all of his my-eyes-only files are sitting unorganized in a pile, not a filing cabinet in sight.

“Josh?” comes a gentle voice from behind him. “You’ve got the—oh my gosh.” Josh leans around his desk and sees Ronna’s wide eyes scanning the room and landing on the dangling ceiling wires. “I don’t think your office is up to code right now.”

“Yeah, well, don’t tell OSHA and we won’t have a problem,” Josh sighs. “What were you saying?”

“The senior staff are waiting for you in the Oval, and the President will be down in a couple of minutes. Where’s Pamela?”

“That’s a great question,” he huffs, voice pitching higher than he’d intended. “I’ll be there soon, thanks Ronna.” She smiles and ducks out as quickly as she’d popped in. 

Josh had asked Pamela to leave the folders he needed for this morning on his desk, but they are nowhere to be found. He stares helplessly at the tower of papers and groans, and decides to wing his first official senior staff meeting. 

This is not the start he’d been hoping for.

He sheds his coat, drops it onto a free corner of the couch, and strides into the Oval, blinded for a moment by the brightness of this space compared to his office. The senior staff is silently standing around in the center of the room: Bram, Edie, Lou, Sam the newbie, and Adam the newest newbie.

“What a lively bunch,” he says, catching their attention and closing the door behind him. “Morning, everyone.”

“Does anyone smell...paint?” Edie asks.

“No,” Josh says, joining the group.

“I definitely smell paint,” Adam says.

“How’re we looking in the Senate for confirming Baker?” Josh asks, sitting in one of the armchairs. The rest of the staff settle around him. The new furniture is throwing him off despite the number of times he’s been in here. This spot is where Leo sat countless times over the last decade, berating himself and Toby and Sam and CJ (and even President Bartlet at times), but now it’s just a chair.

“Obviously we have complete Democratic support,” Edie says, “but we’ll need those key Republican votes to put us over a majority.”

“In an ideal world, Congress would just give us a damn Vice President,” Adam grumbles.

“Welcome to the White House,” Sam quips. Lou snorts into her binder.

The Secret Service agents standing out on the colonnade shuffle around, and the one closest to the door swings it open, declaring,“The President of the United States.”

President Santos bursts into the Oval Office, sunlight streaming through the glass doors behind him and illuminating his enormous frame. The senior staff wordlessly rise to their feet as he strides to his desk and casually drops his briefcase onto it with the conviction that a young, vibrant Leader of the Free World should have. He looks positively presidential. Josh’s breath hitches—he’ll never take standing in this room, serving at the pleasure of his Commander-in-Chief, for granted.

“Good morning,” he booms. “Happy Monday. Where are we on acquiring a Vice President?”

“Good morning, sir,” Josh says. “We’ve identified five Republicans whose votes we’ll need for a definite majority confirmation in the Senate. Mostly moderates in a second or third term.”

“As well as three cushion votes that aren’t exactly necessary but would broaden the margin and, we think, send a message to the Senate Majority Leader if we can swing them,” Bram adds. Santos nods as he walks around to the front of his desk, leans against it and crosses his arms.

“When has the vote been scheduled for?”

“Friday night, sir,” Sam says, “at eight o’clock.”

“And who’s working on getting these votes?”

“Amy has been speaking with Senator Mitchell and is confident that he’s on board,” Edie says. 

Josh adds, “Sam is meeting with Lockmore and Lynch, and Bram is meeting with Ramsey and Fischer. I’ll be talking to the cushion votes, who are...” Josh remembers the notes he needed for this morning had those names scribbled on a sticky note, while a thousand other things in his mind fight for his attention. Wherever it is now, it’s useless to him.

“Haper, Clemmon and Schiavone,” Sam finishes. Josh nods, and Santos claps his hands together.

“Fantastic. What else?”

“There’s a winter weather advisory in place for tomorrow evening, covering the D.C. area and most of the mid-Atlantic” Lou says, “and there’s a good chance it’ll become a warning.” 

“Keep me in the loop on that, I’d like to hear some updates later this evening. Anything else?”

“ _Architectural Digest_ wants to know when renovations will be done in the Residence,” Adam says, “and if any staffers would like their offices featured in a spread–”

The loud, short, “No,” escapes Josh’s mouth before he can stop it. He feels everyone’s eyes shift to him as he does his best to gaze nonchalantly out the windows. He clears his throat. “I’d really prefer that _AD_ stays out of the West Wing proper while we’re still getting into the swing of things,” he adds.

“Fair enough,” Santos says. “Tell them the Residence should be done late next week.” Adam nods, but not without giving Josh another critical look. “Is that everything?”

A chorus of “Yes, sir,” answers, and Santos stands up straight.

“Thank you all for your work,” he grins. “Let’s keep this momentum heading into this Friday’s vote, when we will have our Vice—does anyone... smell paint–”

“Sir, you’ve got a meeting here about five minutes ago,” Josh says, turning to face the senior staff. “I’ll touch base with you all later this morning.” They shuffle out, and when the door closes, Josh heaves a great sigh.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Santos says, lifting a knowing eyebrow at Josh as he sits down behind his desk.

“It was fine,” he answers. “They haven’t quite gelled, yet. Sam and Adam are at a disadvantage because–”

“There’s a learning curve, Josh, they’ll be an airtight team in no time. Who am I meeting with?”

“Funnily enough, I have no idea. My office looks like a rogue librarian broke in over the weekend, and my schedule is either trapped on a computer without a power connection or in the Mount Vesuvius of files on my conference table.”

Santos slips his hands into his pants pockets and tones back the Commander-in-Chief energy. “You also have a learning curve to work with, Josh.”

“I’m pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to include a turf war with the White House interior design team. I also can’t walk down my street without a Secret Service detail. And I have no idea where Pamela is.”

“I think we should all expect the unexpected in this job,” Santos smiles. “And I can’t go to the bathroom without a Secret Service detail.” He winks at Josh as he presses the intercom button. “Send in my nine o’clock, Ronna.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Josh says, showing himself out and back into his black hole. 

A flurry of movement catches his eye down the hall leading to the rest of the West Wing, and he sees Pamela rushing toward him, puffy winter coat half-zipped, her mane of dark brown curls and her scarf flapping behind her.

“You’re late,” Josh snaps. “What the hell happened to my office?”

“What do you m–holy shit,” Pamela pants, tossing her coat and scarf onto the standing rack in the corner of her allotted floor space, eyes fixed on the dark walls and the leaning tower of papers. “If you think I turned your office into the Black Lagoon, you’re sorely mistaken. And I’m sorry, there were delays on the blue line.”

“You take the metro to work?”

“I live in Virginia, _yes_ I take the metro to work. I can’t afford luxurious D.C. housing. Or a car.”

“It’s not that luxurious,” Josh rolls his eyes.

“Oh, like you don’t live in a fancy one-bedroom in Georgetown?”

“I don’t!” He protests. Pamela raises an eyebrow at him. “I live in a fancy two-bedroom in Georgetown.”

“ _Two_ bedrooms? Are you kidding? Can I live with you?”

“No! Look—I need this fixed like, yesterday. Get the interior designer back here as soon as humanly possible. Where are the paint samples?” Pamela takes her place behind the desk, shuffles a few binders and pulls out the sheet for Josh’s office. 

“Jeeze, look, I circled this one,” he says, pointing at a grey-green sage, “but it bled through to the back and it looks like I circled _this_ one.” He flips the paper and shows her. Pamela considers it and then peers back into his office.

“Yeah, that looks like _German Chocolate Forest_ to me.”

“Can you get them to fix this?”

“You bet. And I’m really sorry I’m late. I promise that’s not a habit of mine.” Josh hands the paper back.

“Don’t worry about it. The learning curve here is pretty steep, and everyone’s playing catch-up this week. Sorry for snapping at you.”

“No hard feelings.”

“Do you at least have an extra copy of my schedule while I’m waiting for the 21st century to return to my office?” Pamela moves another binder and pulls it out for him. “See? You’re doing great already, Miss Lewis,” Josh smiles, gazing at the list of people he has to see just this morning. “Let’s move all of my meetings to the Mural Room, though.”

“You bet. Can’t have the Senate Minority Leader get lost inside the German Chocolate Forest.”

Josh, despite the morning already veering wildly off-track, cannot help letting out a bark of laughter.

***

The interior design team leaves Pamela a message for Josh about how very sorry they are for the misunderstanding, and although it won’t take more than a day to fix what had been done wrong, they’re pressed for time to finish the Residence for the _Architectural Digest_ shoot at the end of next week. Until then, Josh would be taking meetings in whatever spaces were available around the West Wing.

By Tuesday morning, maintenance had at least re-established electricity and hooked his desktop up to ethernet so Josh didn’t have to hunch over a laptop in the Roosevelt Room or walk (or shout) across a very public hallway to get his assistant’s attention. There is still a dark void in the ceiling where overhead lighting was supposed to be installed, and though most of his files were put away many of them are still laying in an unorganized mess on his conference table. Compromise was the name of the game, and Santos’ words kept floating through Josh’s head: _Expect the unexpected_.

It wasn’t all bad news—in the last day, Josh received confirmation that Amy had gotten Senator Mitchell on their side, and Bram had already tackled Senators Ramsey and Fischer. Josh himself had secured a cushion vote from Senator Clemmon, meaning Team Santos was tied with the Republican leadership for a successful V.P. confirmation. The tie-breaker in a Senate confirmation is supposed to come from the Vice President. It would be in bad form to have the House Speaker be that tie-breaker in the absence of a V.P., so Josh was eagerly awaiting word from Sam. He’d like their first move as an administration to be an organic victory.

Around lunchtime, Josh is finally doing work at his desk, doors still closed to the outside world and sunshine, when he hears Pamela raise her voice.

“Hi, do you have an—you can’t just barge in there— _hey_!”

The doorknob rattles and Adam lets himself into Josh’s office.

“Woah,” he laughs, “this place looks like the Bat Cave.”

“It’s a work in progress,” Josh retorts. “Did I hear Pamela say you couldn’t come in here, and then you decided to come in here anyway?” Pamela pokes her head in through the door.

“You heard right,” she says, her southern twang coming out just a touch.

“I just have a question about the V.P. vote,” Adam says.

“You are way out of line right now,” Josh says, pointing a pen at him, “but I’ll humor you.” The day they met for his interview, Josh recognized the youthful but determined energy stirring in Adam. A drive that very few people are born with. Josh is willing to help direct that energy if Adam is willing to cooperate. 

“Sit down. Close the door, Pamela?” She does, and Adam sits. “What’s your question?”

“It’s more of a suggestion, actually,” he replies, pushing his shirtsleeves up and crossing pale, freckled arms over his chest. “I think I can help whip votes. I’d like to, anyway.”

Josh raises his eyebrows at him, barely concealing an astonished smile.

“You’re the Press Secretary,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“You’re supposed to whip good will with the Press Corps, not run around the Hill pretending to—”

“Woah, I wouldn’t be pretending,” Adam says, “I worked for Congresswoman Johnson, I know–”

“Don’t interrupt me,” Josh deadpans. “Whipping congressional support for transportation legislation in Oregon is a lot different than talking to three-term senators about the confirmation of the next Vice President of the United States.”

“I know I can–”

“I’m not saying you can’t do it, I’m telling you that you _can’t_ do it, on principle. It’s not your job.”

Adam’s mouth twists into something like a frustrated grimace. “I don’t see why–”

“I’m telling you why. It would look bad for the most high-profile public figure in the White House, whose actual job description includes reporting facts and recounting our political procedures, to be on the Hill convincing Republican senators to do what we want them to. You’d be briefing others on your own actions.”

“It would look bad?”

“Very bad.”

“That’s your reason?”

“It’s _the_ reason. You went to journalism school, this is Year One ethics stuff.”

Adam blows air out his mouth, ruffling a few auburn curls, and claps his hands against his legs.

“Well,” he says, “sorry to bother you then. I’ve got a briefing in two hours, anything new I should know?”

“Not right now, but I’ll be sure to tell you if something comes up.”

“Kay.” And Adam leaves just as quickly as he came, not bothering to shut the door behind him. Josh sighs and closes it himself. It seems he has more ambition than Josh originally calculated.

Not fifteen minutes later, Josh hears a conversation much like from before start up outside.

“...people have to schedule appointments, y’all can’t just waltz in whenever you want.” It’s only been a day and Josh is already quite fond of Pamela.

“Can you tell him it’s me?” replies an all-too familiar voice.

“Let him in, Pamela, it’s okay,” Josh calls. The door knob rattles again, and this time it’s Sam that strolls in. Sam Seaborn, the oldest and friendliest face currently working in this White House. At least to Josh. 

Something that Josh absolutely could not have predicted twenty years ago was meeting Sam, becoming fast friends, and endeavoring to change the world together as senior aides to two sitting presidents. Josh still can’t believe they’re working together again.

Sam blinks a few times, rooted to the spot, squinting into the dark abyss of the office.

“Go on, shoot your shot, see if I’ve heard it already,” Josh grins.

“Did you pick a purposefully repulsive paint color to keep people away? Like the aesthetic opposite of bright colors on a poisonous frog?”

“Huh. I was expecting you to take a funnier route,” Josh sighs. “That was pretty lame.” 

Sam shrugs his shoulders and remains standing, more than a few paces from Josh’s desk, tucking his hands into his pockets.

“I got Lynch and Lockmore this morning,” he says.

“Really? You got ‘em?” Sam nods. “Sam, that’s great, we’ve broken the tie! We’ve got a V.P.!”

“To my understanding, we’ll know for sure about that after eight on Friday night.”

“You know what I mean. This is big, this is our first major move as an administration. How does it feel to be giving Republicans a hard time as part of your job description again?”

“About the same as it always did. I don’t want to keep you, I just wanted to tell you in person. And if you need help, I can spare a half hour to convince another moderate that upholding democracy should be their main priority right now.”

“Ah—right.” Something’s... wrong. “Yeah, I’ll let you know. Uh, thanks, Sam.”

“Sure thing.”

Josh knows whipping votes isn’t the most glamorous part of the job, but he figured Sam might show a _little_ enthusiasm.

“I’ll get out of your hair, then,” Sam adds, already halfway out the door.

“Sam, wait–” Josh starts, but as he gets up to stop him, Pamela sticks her head in the door.

“Sorry, pardon me. Josh, Secretary Vinnick is waiting for you in the... Situation Room? Is that bad?”

“Huh?” Before Josh can think of what to say to get him to turn around, Sam turns the corner and disappears down the hall. He sighs, turning his attention back to his assistant. “No, no, for this meeting it’s just a secure room. It’s the unscheduled, impromptu meetings in the Sit Room you wanna look out for. Thanks, Pamela.” 

“Uh-huh. Who was that again?”

“Hm?”

“Who was just here? Still trying to put faces with names.”

“Oh—Sam Seaborn.”

“And he’s...?”

“Deputy. Er, my deputy. Deputy Chief of Staff.”

***

“Josh, that is _terrific_ news.”

“I’m glad you think so, sir.”

Long after the sun has set, and after Vinnick is able to deliver his first official update on Kazakhstan and take any remaining wind out of his sails, Josh is able to catch Santos during a free moment in the Oval. The snow storm had moved over D.C. a couple hours ago, and now the flakes are falling heavy and fast out the floor-to-ceiling windows behind the president.

He looks much more like he did on the campaign trail, jacket folded over the back of his chair, tie gone, and sleeves rolled up past his elbows, but always determined. Josh half wonders where the White House photographer is. This is the hardworking man they need to capture for posterity.

“Now we just need to keep a low profile until Friday night. I wasn’t expecting a soft confirmation until at least Thursday afternoon. You must be pleased as anything. These are big moves.”

“I can assure you I’ll still be holding my breath until Friday night, sir,” Josh smiles, clasping his wrist behind his back. “And Sam, Bram and Amy have done most of the legwork on this one.”

“You’re too humble, Josh. Don’t start selling yourself short so soon. You’re their boss, you have plenty of pull.”

“All at the pleasure of the president, sir. That’s why we’re here.”

“I was hoping you hadn’t forgotten little old me,” he smirks. “Is everything else all in order?”

“Sir?”

Santos signs another paper and continues on without missing a beat, “I thought you might’ve been a little more ‘to the victor’ with this news. There’s no senator going to come out of left field and derail this whole process, right? How was your meeting with Secretary Vinnick?”

“I wouldn’t worry about the confirmation, sir, it’s resting on a bedrock foundation of bipartisan support. And the Kazakhstan meeting went about as well as it could, given the circumstances.”

Santos pauses his signing, and levels Josh with a gaze as sincere as anything, dark eyes boring into his own. “Are you okay, then?”

He gives half a shrug. “Let’s chalk it up to first day nerves.”

“But it’s your second day.”

“And that’s why I went into politics instead of law. The sentiment still stands.”

Santos laughs at that, and signs one last paper with a flourish before flipping the file folder closed. “Go on and get out of here, before the snow gets too bad. Good evening, Josh.”

“Good evening, Mr. President.”

Out his own window, Josh can see the ground is already carpeted in an inch of snow—the wet and heavy kind, nearly impossible to shovel. 

Pamela knocks on the door frame behind him. “You leaving?” she asks. “Need anything? Everything good?”

He pulls on his coat and says, “I’m all set, thanks. Hey, how’s that learning curve going?”

“I’ve had easier jobs,” she says, wrapping her scarf around her neck and giving it a satisfied tug. “But I signed up for this one, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, we all did, didn’t we? C’mon, I’ll walk you out.”

As Josh hits the lights behind them on the way, Pamela asks, “How’s your learning curve going?” 

“I’ve had easier jobs,” he parrots. “But I signed up for this one. Tell you what, the ongoing war with the interior decorators was unexpected.”

Pamela laughs, and Josh is glad she hasn’t been turned completely off by himself or the gig, yet. Lots of support staff don’t make it past the first day. Thinking of learning curves, he supposes that, all things considered, he’s been a little hard on himself today. _Expect the unexpected_. He just wishes he felt a bit happier about getting Baker’s votes. Maybe a bit more enthusiastic about his own staff, and sympathetic of their own learning curves.

And he still can’t shake the feeling that something’s just... wrong.


	2. Asked and Answered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “asked and answered” (objection, n.): when the question being asked has both been asked and been answered before by this attorney and this witness.

“You gonna watch the vote?”

“ _You’re asking if I’m going to watch C-SPAN at eight p.m. on a Friday?_ ”

“Are you saying you’re _not_ going to watch C-SPAN at eight p.m. on a Friday?”

“ _I'll have to cut you a rain-check on this one, Josh. You know what, speaking of TV, I did see you during the Inauguration_.”

“You trying to change the subject on me? Did I look like I was freezing my ass off?”

“ _You looked tired, hon._ ”

“Oh. Well, I _was_ tired.”

“ _Are you taking care of yourself, Josh?_ ” If he had a dollar for every time his mother asked him that, he could be living in a fancy three-bedroom in Georgetown.

“Yeah, Ma, ‘course I am.” Josh tucks his phone between his shoulder and the side of his head as he plucks the first shirt out of his laundry basket and begins folding it. “Trust me, I’m a lot better now than I was in November. It’s nice knowing I have fractionally more substantial job security for at least the next four years, bar any unforeseen disasters.”

“ _I’m so, so proud of you, Josh, but I hope you aren’t prioritizing your career over your wellbeing_.” Josh pauses, second shirt dangling from his hands in front of him. 

“Whaddya mean?”

“ _I just mean you’ve been working so hard your whole life—I hope that when the time comes, you know when to take a step back, to settle down._ ”

“Do you mean retirement?” Josh folds the second shirt and moves onto the next one. “This is my third term in the West Wing, Ma, I’m not ready to retire. I’m not even 50 yet, and—”

“ _Joshua. I mean_ settling down _. Starting a family._ ” Oh.

“Oh.”

“ _Have you given it any thought?_ ”

“Huh? Yeah, I-I’ve been on... dates,” he lies through his teeth. He _had_ been on dates, and then in a steady relationship for a few months. Four years ago.

“ _You’ll have to be more convincing than that, hon._ ”

“I was more or less living on an airplane for a while, you know. Not the best dating scene.”

“ _And now that you’re back on the ground, you need to make sure you’re well supported_.” A feeling he can’t quite pin starts to creep into his chest.

“I’ve been doing just fine. I’m an independent guy.”

“ _I raised you, Josh, you don’t need to tell me you’re independent_.”

“Okay, so what’s–”

“ _It’s one thing to have coworkers you get along with. Finding someone who cares about you, who looks out for you, respects you, is always there for you, who loves you—it will change your life, Josh. You won’t recognize yourself when you find her_.” 

Josh has to hold the phone at arm’s length to throw his head back and let out a sigh that leaves him winded. This is a conversation that he and his mother have been having since the moment he started his career, and it’s just as cyclical and frustrating today as it was back in 1987. In an instant he can pin that creeping feeling down: dread.

He brings the phone back to his ear to hear his mom say, “ _Josh? Are you still there?_ ”

“Yeah, I’m still here.”

“ _I don’t want you to think that being independent means that you don’t have to, or need to, let anyone else into your life_.”

Josh’s heartbeat quickens. “I don’t think that,” he argues.

“ _You’re a stubborn man, Josh._ ”

“I learned from the best,” he quips. He hears his mother’s familiar huff of fake indignation—they’re resorting to tried and true banter, which means no one’s mind is going to change today.

“ _When you find the right woman, I won’t say ‘I told you so,’ but–_ ”

“Nah, you’re definitely gonna say that.” 

“ _Yeah, you’re right._ ”

He decides his mother has chipped away at his ego enough for this evening. “Um, listen Ma, I gotta go. It was great talking to you. I miss you.”

“ _Before you go_ ,” she says, “ _can I just—are you happy?_ ”

“Happy?”

“ _Happy._ ”

“Yeah, I’m happy.” That didn’t even sound convincing to himself, which is pathetic because he wasn’t even trying to lie.

There’s another pause, and then his mother finally says, “ _I’ll let you go, Josh. I love you._ ”

“Love you, too. Hey—it’s your turn to come visit me for Thanksgiving this year.”

“ _It’s January, hon_.”

“Okay, don’t tell me I didn’t remind you.”

“ _Ten months beforehand? Such a considerate son I have._ ”

“You know it. Bye, Ma. Talk soon.” He hangs up and tosses the phone onto the couch before twisting around and flopping down with about as much grace.

Josh just has commitment issues, and very high standards, and an unpredictable career; he is too stubborn, too busy, too hot-headed, not that interested in dating around. 

Josh would rather consider himself the worst in the world at relationships before admitting that his laundry list of excuses is a poor cover for the larger problem at hand.

His first thought is that he’s never been happier. He feels his best when he’s not forcing himself to pursue a relationship, he feels his best when he’s doing a job he loves and that challenges him. He’s never had a stellarly successful relationship, either; he knows why, but that doesn’t need to be unpacked right now in his living room. 

To acknowledge it would be to upset the very precarious balance of his universe.

He returns to his laundry as a heaviness settles in his chest and sits with him for the rest of the evening.

***

Thursday had been going off without a hitch until around three o’clock, when Josh crosses paths with Amy in the hall. It’s normally a non-issue, but today she has a certain look in her eye that Josh feels does not bode well for him.

“Hey,” she says. They pause, stepping out of the flow of human traffic around them.

“Hey yourself,” he answers. “Thanks for getting Mitchell on board with Baker.”

“Mitchell’s weak, it wasn’t that hard. You got a minute?”

Josh glances at his watch, more as a courtesy gesture. “Well I have three total minutes of free time, today. I can spare you about thirty seconds.”

“Do you remember our talk we had in November?”

“Twenty-eight seconds.”

“About my friend?” Josh stares blankly. “Who is single?” He squints, willing himself to remember.

“Oh! Cara Ferrero from State.”

“Sarah Potrero from Justice.”

“Sarah from Justice, yes, I do remember you channeling my mother and suggesting I woo her into a long and happy life together with me.” Amy looks at him expectantly. “What?”

“Will you woo her into a long and happy life together with you?”

Josh shakes his head and starts back toward his office. “I don’t have time for this.” Amy’s heels _click-clack_ on the granite floors as she tails after him.

“Will you at least get drinks with her?”

“Did you not just hear me say I have about two minutes and fifteen seconds of remaining free time today?”

“Obviously it doesn’t have to be today–”

“No, I mean I don’t have _time_ –” he waves his hands vaguely around his head “–to see Sarah from Justice. At all.”

“Come on–”

“I don’t really _want_ to, either. Starting a relationship is not a priority of mine right now.” The _click-clacking_ pauses for a moment, then picks up a smidge faster.

“Are you ill?”

“Stop it–”

“No, I’m serious, are you feeling feverish? Want me to get you a thermometer and a cool washcloth? I might have some Dayquil in my purse–”

“Okay,” Josh veers away from his office at the last second, steering Amy into the empty Roosevelt Room and shutting the door behind them. “What is your problem?”

“I’m just genuinely shocked to hear that Joshua Lyman is actively _avoiding_ pursuing a relationship. I bet your mother is thrilled.”

“I called her yesterday, as a matter of fact, and have already listened to her kvetch about me not taking my personal life and romantic pursuits seriously enough. I really, _really_ don’t need it from you, too—especially not in the form of patronizing me through the whole West Wing.” 

Amy bristles, shifting her weight from foot to foot, then sticks her tongue between her teeth.

“You’re being immature,” she grins.

“ _You’re_ being immature, why—why isn’t ‘I don’t want to’ a good enough answer for you?”

“Because it’s _not_ a good enough answer coming from you, Josh. You’re hiding something from me.” 

Josh struggles to keep his breathing even and his composure workplace-appropriate.

“Do not—do _not_ ,” he seethes, gesturing stiffly, “argue with me about my personal life. You wish you knew me that well—otherwise you’d know that I’ve had it up to here with people contradicting what I say and telling me what I do and do not know, and what I do and do not want.”

Josh didn’t expect to deliver this half-admission to Amy, but he’s been struggling all week to understand why everyone seems to be echoing the sentiment that she delivered to him in a single, biting line back in November. _It’s what the grownups do._ ‘It’ of course being settling down, and the ‘grownups’ of course being everyone but Josh.

He stares at this woman—this smart-as-a-whip, passionate, stubborn woman—with whom he tried so, _so_ hard to build and maintain a life with. They’re so alike—maybe too alike—but more different than she could ever know. Would ever know. She’ll never know.

She stares back, arms crossed, considering him.

“What _do_ you want, Josh?” 

What he doesn’t want is his staff interrogating him, for his thoughts and feelings to be questioned, for his personal life to be water cooler talk. He doesn’t want to consider that having his dream job and his dream staff may not be enough.

What he _really_ doesn’t want is to let Amy think she’s gotten the better of him. He keeps his expression as plain as possible and cooly slips his hands into his pockets.

“I want to go do my job.” He turns on his heel and crosses the hallway into his office, giving Pamela the briefest of nods before shutting the door behind him.

***

Yesterday was just a fluke. No, the whole week. First, second, third and fourth day nerves. It’s the fifth time that’s the charm, right?

Thank God it’s Friday. The day outside is grey, biting winds and stop-and-go rain showers pelting the windows and casting the West Wing in a desaturated gloom. There are only 13 hours until he gets to watch the Republican-led Senate confirm Eric Baker as Vice President. There’s a shiny new draft of a portion of the exit strategy from Secretary Vinick waiting for him on his desk. The interior design team even found the time to repaint his office in the middle of the night. No longer the German Chocolate Forest, Josh can at least take meetings in his own space with the walls now the serene sage color they were meant to be.

Today he will work. Hard. As he is wont to do.

Josh has pushed the heavy feeling so far down it’s like it’s not even there. 

But the mood outside seems to have filtered in through the walls and affected the mood inside. An unremarkable morning creeps on toward what seems to be making itself out to be an unremarkable afternoon. Vinick’s memo is long and full of foreign policy jargon that makes Josh’s vision swim. He has to spend another five minutes of his life assuring the Democratic leadership that yes, Eric Baker is all but confirmed to become Vice President. Pamela is uncharacteristically quiet out at her desk, even with Josh’s door now open to the rest of the world.

A walk. He needs a walk, and to see some familiar faces.

He chats with Ronna at her desk, who is stubbornly chipper despite the downtrodden attitudes of everyone else in the building. Edie and Amy have their heads together in an animated discussion outside their offices, so he lets them be. The comms _and_ the policy bullpens are near-empty, and he has half a mind to ask the nearest intern why she’s the only one at her desk before he remembers it’s lunch time. He's about to cut back through comms when he catches a familiar name in conversation.

“...thought he and Donna were...?”

“No, no I think they’re just friends.”

“But didn’t they—I heard that on the trail, didn’t they–?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think they did.”

Two new hires are hunched over the water cooler, quite literally discussing Josh and Donna's personal lives. He wants to be furious, but Josh is caught completely off-guard. Lou slips past the two of them, looking windswept with a few binders and a styrofoam takeout container tucked into the crook of her arm, and a damp umbrella in the other.

“Hey Lou, you were there," one of them calls after her. "What can you tell us about Josh and Donna?”

She pauses in the doorway of her office, grumbles out, “Don’t get me involved. In fact—grow up,” and shuts the door behind her with indisputable finality.

Josh wants to go knock their heads together, kick up a fuss about workplace decorum and chain of command and _don’t you two have more important things to be doing_. Funnily enough, an inner voice that sounds suspiciously like Donna reminds him that he has to pick his battles. 

All it takes is that one second of reconsidering before the two men—he can’t even remember their names, Ned and Barry or something—share an uncertain look and split off to get on with their days.

With a sigh of half-relief, half-exasperation, he considers popping into Lou’s office to say thanks, but decides it’s not worth either of their time. This is the kind of inane, schoolyard nonsense kept in check by the rest of the senior staff, ideally so it never reaches Josh in the first place. He knows that, and Lou does too.

***

The Senate confirms Eric Baker, 64-36. 

It’s only after about a hundred handshakes are exchanged, a glass or two of champagne are drunk, and sitting in on Santos’ congratulatory call to the newly-appointed vice president that Josh is able to retreat to his office and start packing up for the night. 

He’s hunched over his backpack, trying to stuff his laptop in between all the weekend reading he has to do, when someone knocks on the door.

“Come in,” he answers, yanking the zipper side-to-side as he tries to force it shut around the dozens of folders and memos.

“Thought you might still be here.”

He looks up to find Donna smiling in his door.

“Hey,” he beams back, still wrestling with the zip. “Missed you at the watch party. What are you still doing here?”

“Yeah, I watched it in my office. Still had some work to do. I just came by to say hi, haven’t seen you all week.

Right after the Inauguration, Donna had exchanged her shoulder-length locks for a sleek pixie cut with enough length to still style her bangs. She looks fresh, eager, and confident. She looks like how Josh does _not_ feel. What Josh _does_ feel is tired, annoyed, and anxious.

She drapes her coat over the back of a spare chair. “So? How was your first week?”

Josh snorts and starts fidgeting with a nearby pen. “Fine, overall. Politics as usual. Except it seems like some people are unable to cope with the idea of ‘Josh Lyman, confirmed bachelor’ and have been going well out of their ways to tell me what they think on the matter.”

“What?” Donna snaps, and Josh jolts up in his seat. “Have they got nothing better to do while working for the president? That’s none of their damn business.” A flood of affection for Donna wells up in his chest.

“Thank you! I can deal with my mother bugging me about it, but not Amy, and especially not Ned and Barry.”

“Ted and Gary, you mean? Wait— _Ted and Gary_ said something? They barely know you!”

“I know! Actually they were gossipping about—me and uh, you, they think we uh...during the campaign, apparently a lot of people think–”

“Who cares what they think?” she says, and that’s all Josh needs to hear from her on the subject. He sighs and sinks lower into this chair.

“I feel like I’m on trial, and the lawyer keeps asking the same question over and over, and no one’s calling an objection.”

She nods and takes a seat in front of his desk, reclining and crossing her legs.

“I’m sorry people aren’t respecting your boundaries. My mom stopped asking me about boyfriends as soon as I hit the campaign trail. I think she figured it was a lost cause then.”

“I wish. My mom said I looked tired at the Inauguration and asked when I’m settling down on the same phone call.” Donna laughs, and Josh can’t hold back a few giggles either.

“You still seem down, though. Is everything else alright?”

“Yeah, yeah you know,” he sighs, “it’s taking this staff some time to get in the groove. We haven’t done nose-to-the-grindstone politicking in a while and I think the learning curve is hitting them pretty hard. It’ll be fine.”

“Hm.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“I’m not convinced. Look, I know I just shamed the others for not minding their own business–”

“Donna, you’re not the others, you know.” Donna isn’t trying to make Josh feel guilty, or immature, or like his time is running out, or that the choices he’s made weren’t for legitimate reasons.

She smiles at that. “Do you wanna tell me what’s really going on?”

“There’s not—nothing’s going on. I’m fine.” He starts fiddling with his watch, a habit he knows that Donna knows is one of his tells.

“If that was supposed to convince me, you’re going to have to try a lot harder.”

His chest aches with the desire to tell her. The words are on the tip of his tongue, but fear keeps his mouth sealed shut. Once he tells her, there’s no going back. The security he’s established for himself, his perfect veneer, will shatter. He’ll be vulnerable, he won’t be in total control, others could find out, people could _hate_ him. Maybe worst of all, it’s actually guaranteed that some people _will_ hate him.

“You know I’m only asking because I care about you,” she continues, leaning forward in her seat and holding steady eye contact. “I want you to be happy.”

He almost got it to work. There had been times when he second-guessed himself, wondered if it was worth the trouble. But then there were times where it all felt like it was going to plan, like he was really going to make it work, as if he’d fooled himself along with the rest of the world.

But he would not have been happy. Not really.

“New job, you know, uh... just thinking about...” Josh clears his throat. “I gotta—this is something I have to do by myself. I–I can’t tell you.” Josh switches to rubbing his fingers along the palm of his right hand, feeling the scar from when he smashed the window in his old apartment, a reminder of the last time he’d withdrawn so far into himself that he almost hadn’t come back out. 

“Josh, you know you can tell me anything.”

“Donna, I—um,” he starts and stops, feeling his heart thundering in his chest, the sound echoing in his ears. He opens his mouth and tries again, but nothing comes out. He realizes he’s never said the words out loud before.

The weight that’s been sitting in his chest all week suddenly becomes an unbearable, claustrophobic tightness. He sucks in a small breath and smiles just as tightly, looking at the wall behind Donna. For years and years, it’s always been _I can’t._ Can’t risk it, can’t take the chance, can’t even acknowledge it. 

But if what he’s feeling right now is how it will be for the rest of his life, it must not be worth it.

And plenty of people already hate him.

“I’m gay.”

The silence that follows rings in Josh’s ears as he watches Donna work to understand what he just said.

“What?” She looks absolutely floored, eyes wide and brows drawn up in a worried point. 

“I’m gay, Donna,” he repeats, trying his best to keep his voice steady. He’s clenching and unclenching his hands at his sides, bracing for something, anything. “Everyone, even my mother, keeps asking me about girlfriends and getting married and settling down, and I can’t tell them—I can’t tell them just how wrong they are.”

Donna keeps staring. She looks _stunned_ , and Josh can watch her own thoughts racing behind her eyes.

“I can’t believe it,” she finally says, practically jumping to her feet and pacing to the other side of the room. She runs her fingers through her cropped hair, then props both hands on her hips. “You? Really?”

Josh is afraid if he says the wrong thing, or moves too quickly, she’ll flee the room and he’ll never see her again. He stands up, too, and carefully maneuvers around the desk.

“Yeah,” he says gently. “Really.”

She brings her arms up and crosses them tightly across her chest, head bent forward a fraction. “This isn’t some—you’re not—you’re not, like—joking, are you? Like this isn’t a really bad, tasteless joke?”

It’s Josh’s turn to be stunned. “Do you think I’d joke about something like this?” He can hardly believe he even has to ask.

“You know, if I’m being completely honest, it’s hard to tell sometimes.”

“Well I’m not. Joking. I’m serious.”

“I’m only asking, because–”

“Why would you think I’d be joking about this–”

“–had to make sure you wouldn’t–”

“–wouldn’t _what_ , Donna, what would I possibly have to gain by–”

Her face scrunches up in frustration, and she waves her arms back and forth. “I’m asking, _Josh_ , because I am, too.”

“You’re—what?” Another much briefer silence engulfs them. 

She stands up straight, takes a steadying breath, and says, “I’m gay, too.” 

Then her face spreads into a near-manic grin. “Oh my God.” She gestures frantically at Josh. “Oh my God, Josh, what just _happened?_ ”

“I think we just came out to each other,” he smiles, still reeling from the whiplash of the several distinct directions this conversation has taken them. Donna’s eyes are still blown wide in disbelief. “C’mere.” He holds his arms out and Donna falls right into them.

How Josh let himself think even for a moment that Donna wouldn’t accept him for _him_ , _all of him_ , he didn’t know, but he’ll never do it again. He lets out a long breath, resting his chin on her shoulder, and feels the crushing weight lift, revels in it, even if it’s just for this moment.

“We’re really—we’re both gay?” he laughs. “We’re both gay. This’ll be one for the history books.”

Donna’s arms squeeze him tighter. “Josh, I’ve never told anyone before.”

He squeezes her back. “Me neither. But I told you. And you told me.”

He told her. He _told her_. And yet the world is still spinning. The earth didn’t swallow him whole, the stars are still hanging in the sky, and Donna doesn’t hate him.

She pulls back, keeping Josh at arm’s length. “I know the last couple of years have been rough for us, but I trust you. Completely. I wouldn’t have told you if I didn’t trust you. I mean I wanted to tell you for _ages_ , but I _couldn’t_ and I felt _awful_ about it and I just...”

“Oh I know the feeling. But how do you feel now?” 

Her face splits into a devastatingly giddy grin. “I feel so _light_.”

“I feel like I can breathe again. Like I just got off the witness stand.”

***

It was only on Monday that Josh walked with that pep in his step through the West Wing. The building is nearly deserted as they walk through the dim halls toward the employee entrance, and tonight it’s less a pep and more of a steady, sure stride.

Ted and Gary are loitering in the lobby, chatting idly as they button their coats.

“Watch this,” Donna mutters in Josh’s ear just as she slips her arm snugly around his. Ted and Gary just stare dumbly back as the chiefs of staff breeze past them toward the security desk.

“Evening, fellas,” Donna grins, keeping a perfectly friendly face as Josh struggles to not laugh.

“Donnatella Moss, you’re _bad_ ,” he chides. 

They step out into the damp January evening, and their breath puffs thick in front of their faces. The clouds have mostly cleared away, and the stars are indeed still hanging in the sky above.


	3. Soupe du Jour

**Now / 9:08 p.m. ---**

The temperature is teetering on the edge of 32º, made clear by the wind and freezing rain whipping at his face. It’s a wonder it isn’t snowing, yet. Josh pulls his scarf up over his mouth and shoves his hands as far down into his coat pockets as they can go. He turns the last corner before his destination, careful to avoid the puddle of slush sitting in front of the entrance.

He wastes no time, after slipping inside the restaurant’s doors, shedding his winter wear. The blood rushes back to his fingers all at once, almost painfully, but his face doesn’t flush hot until he meets Sam’s eyes at the back of the dining room. He looks markedly neutral considering Josh is nearly an hour late.

Josh navigates the maze of other, mostly empty tables, and plops into the open seat, draping his coat over the back of it and kicking his backpack underneath it.

Sam’s mouth quirks up in a half-smile. “Hi there.”

“I am _so_ sorry,” Josh blurts out, “I had a meeting with–”

“It’s okay.”

“It pushed everything back and I totally lost track of time, and then Lou stopped me and you know how Lou gets when she wants to tell you something–”

“Josh, it’s really okay. Better late than never.”

“Okay.” He settles back into his chair. “Ya hungry? I haven’t eaten since noon.” He instinctively moves to pick up a menu, but as his eyes catch up with his hands he finds the table is bare.

“I already ordered for us.”

“Yeah? What’d you order?”

“The soupe du jour, to start.”

“Okay. What is it?”

“Soup of the day.”

“No, I—what is the soup, Sam?”

“I didn’t check.”

“You didn’t check? _You_?”

He shrugs. “What? It’s soup, it’ll be fine.”

“You don’t eat a salad unless you know what kind of lettuce it has.”

“It’ll be fine, Josh. Look—as much as I love arguing about soup, why are we here?”

They have not sat face-to-face like this in a long time; the frantic transition wouldn’t allow it. Josh has been anticipating this moment for months, of picking up where they left off almost exactly four years prior. But now that it’s here he’s terrified to speak, terrified of what all that time apart might have done to them.

Though the only thing worse than hearing what he doesn’t want to hear, he supposes, is never knowing for sure.

“I wanna talk about you, Sam.”

**Earlier / 9:15 a.m. ---**

The day had begun as another cold, grey, mid-Atlantic winter morning, with a forecast of more snow showers predicted to blanket D.C. in another two or three inches starting late in the evening.

It’s barely past nine and Josh’s eyes are already glazing over the 600 pages of the federal budget on his desk. It’s only Wednesday and he’s ready for this week to just _end_ , already. Perhaps it’s the winter weather, or the monotony of office life after the year-long adrenaline rush of the campaign, or some sick combination—but the whole West Wing feels tired and closed off, like everyone is dead on their feet and just going through the motions.

Adam, of all people, pulls Josh from his reverie through the TV. He tries to catch the first briefing of every day so he can start each morning on the same page as the press, even if they’re usually miles ahead of him by lunch.

It’s over quickly, and Josh predicted just about every question asked. Adam did well, but it’s no surprise when he beelines straight from the podium to Josh’s office. He settles into his usual seat after being granted permission from Josh and saying good morning to Pamela.

“Good job out there,” Josh starts, setting his pen down.

“Thanks. What’re you working on?” Adam asks.

“Arguments for either keeping a 50-cent gas tax or cutting it out of the federal budget. A gift of sorts from the last admin. If we cut it, we appear leagues more reasonable than Bartlet and more sympathetic to the working class. If we keep it, we cut emissions and the deficit.”

“And cut any ties left with the GOP.”

“Bingo.”

“What a thoughtful parting gift.”

“Could’ve been worse. They could’ve left us on the verge of a nuclear war.”

“Touché. Listen, I wanted to ask exactly what we’re planning for the first hundred days.”

Yep. Just as he thought. “Is this you asking or is this the _Post_ asking?”

“The press are under the impression that we’re off to a ‘deliberately’ slow start.”

“Deliberately slow?”

“Two weeks in, that’s nearly twenty percent of our first hundred days. Not much to show for it.”

“Believe it or not, I _did_ pass middle school math. And you and the press corps know as well as I do that we are not exactly going through a typical first hundred days. Unless—do you think they forgot we’re currently managing about 160,000 troops in Central Asia?”

“I don’t think they did, Josh.”

“Me neither. I think they’re yanking your chain because you’re an easy target. You’re young, you’re the first line of defense for this unorthodox first hundred days, and the cable news networks need to fill the airways with _something_ twelve hours a day.”

As Adam nods in understanding, Josh runs a hand through his hair and leans back in his chair.

“But to answer your question—obviously there are the core messages of the campaign, universal health care, education reform, and now there’s maintaining peace in the Middle East as well as in Kazakhstan—but right now we’re really just trying to submit the budget to Congress on time.” He emphasizes that with a few taps of his pen on the legal pad covered in his chicken scratch on the desk.

“Would you like me to tell the _Post_ all that, or–”

“You know what, go sit down with Edie and Sam to talk legislative direction, maybe prioritize things to get a schedule going. Then sit with Bram to talk language. Then come back to me so we’re all on the same page.”

“I, uh—hm,” he stammers.

“What?”

“Sam?”

“Yeah. The Deputy Chief of Staff has been known to dabble in implementing the legislative agenda of the president.”

“Has _he_ though?”

“Seriously?” Josh grins. “You’re asking if Sam has helped implement the legislative agenda of the president?” 

Adam nods, then tugs at his ear, suddenly looking exceedingly sheepish.

“Sorry, I could have worded that better. We haven’t talked much, or really worked directly together yet. I just haven’t had time to get to know him that well. He’s been a little—we just haven’t worked together yet.”

“I can guarantee you he’s perfectly qualified for this,” Josh says, grabbing his notes and pretending to focus intently on them.

“I believe you. I’ll–I’ll go round up the troops, then.”

Josh keeps his eyes on the legal pad. “Good. Are you briefing again today?”

“Once at two.”

“Alright. I’ll check in on you all around six. Thanks, Adam.”

“Sure thing. See you later.” Adam takes his leave, and as soon as his footsteps fade out of earshot, Josh jumps up and hurries out to Pamela.

“Can you get Sam in here today?” he asks, drumming his pen on her desk. “Just for five minutes.”

“Mhm, let me see,” she says, tapping a few keys and scanning the senior staff calendar. “Hm, he’s booked over on the Hill until 1:30, and you’re with Ways and Means from 1:00 to 3:00. Then Sam’s in back-to-back meetings from 3:00 to 4:30–”

“Okay, just let me know if something opens up.” He runs the same hand through his hair again. “God, I’m really with Ways and Means for two hours?”

“In middle school I would hide in the bathroom if I didn’t want to sit through a lesson.”

“Good to know. Do your bathroom privileges need to be revoked?”

“No, I’ve matured as a person since sixth grade. I’m just trying to get you an easy out of your two-hour Ways and Means meeting.”

“I’ll tough it out this time. But don’t think I’ve never stooped below scheduling fake meetings to get out of other meetings I didn’t want to sit through.”

**Now ---**

“Is this a... performance review?”

“No, this is just me asking how everything’s going while waiting to be served mystery soup.” Sam doesn’t laugh, so Josh refocuses. It’s probably best to keep this sincere. “I feel like we’re not on the same page right now, and I would like us to be.”

“With work? Did I miss something?”

“No, just, y’know, in general.”

A look of _something_ —Josh might’ve called it frustration—flashes across Sam’s face. 

Josh persists. “How’s everything going?”

“Fine.”

Okay. Right. Maybe this is going to be harder than Josh anticipated.

Sam continues, “I’m just trying to focus on doing good work.”

“You’ve been doing just fine. In fact, I think you’ve been putting in a bit of over-time.”

“We all put in over-time, all the time. I don’t think there’s a day we aren’t putting in over-time.”

“I mean, you’re taking meetings you could easily pass off to people like Ted and Gary. None of the senior staff can say they’ve gotten to know you all that well. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were avoiding us.”

Josh takes a sip of his water and his eyes dip down just in time to catch a glimpse of Sam wringing his cloth napkin underneath the table.

“Are you—you’re not nervous, are you?” he asks. “I already said this isn’t like, an official thing.” 

Sam keeps his eyes glued to the table. “More like, contemplating if what I spent the last couple hours thinking over in my head is actually worth saying,” he answers.

“Sam, are you alright?”

“I called Toby a few days ago, and he told me I was an idiot for thinking this, but here I go anyway. I know I left, and it’s been a while since we’ve worked together, but I hope we’re not sitting here tonight because you’re already disappointed in me.”

  
  


**Earlier / 12: 37 p.m. ---**

Josh’s 11:00 meeting runs thirty minutes over, so instead of the walk to the deli he’d been planning, a turkey sandwich from the mess will have to do. 

He tries to eat as far away from his desk as possible to keep some semblance of a work-life balance; today all he can manage is wandering over to the couch and setting his lunch and diet Coke on the coffee table. He’s halfway through the sandwich, trying his best to absorb the quiet of the moment, when someone knocks on his open door.

It’s Pamela, and Josh can tell something is off just by the way she’s standing—stiff and awkward, instead of her usual comfortable slouch to one side.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi.”

“You eating lunch?”

His eyes dart down to the half-eaten sandwich in his hand, then back up to Pamela. “Yeah?”

“Do you mind if I...?” She’s clutching a tupperware of pasta salad in her hands, and she nods toward the armchair beside him.

“Sure.” She sinks down into the seat, now gripping the container in her lap. “Everything alright?”

She hesitates. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, shoot.” Concern seeping in, Josh sets his sandwich down.

“Is it always—I know this is a serious job, with serious people, but like—” her mouth curls into a half-grimace, half-something a little more thoughtful. “Is it always so quiet around here?”

“You pray for quiet days around here. Quiet means nothing’s going wrong.”

“No, I mean—okay—don’t people talk to each other? My last job was a lot more lively. Friendly? Maybe I’m just not reading the room right, but it’s so...”

“Quiet?”

“More like, hesitant. Like everyone’s scared of doing something wrong. But it might just be me.” She pauses again. “It’s not just me, is it? Like—and I’m not trying to generalize, here—but do people ignore you if you try to say hi in the hallway? Or is it—um—am I doing something wrong?”

“Woah, hey,” Josh says, “you’re not doing anything wrong, Pamela.” She won’t meet his eyes. “Pamela. Hey.”

She twists a few curls around her finger and finally looks up.

“You’ll find your people,” he says. “Sometimes it’s fast, sometimes it’s slow, sometimes you gotta spend a year traveling the country together to even tolerate each other. This time last year, Lou and I couldn’t stand in the same room for five minutes without arguing.”

Pamela cracks a smile. “You still can’t do that.”

“It’s more like ten minutes, now. My point is that things will fall into place for you. I promise. You’re what, 27?”

“26.”

“When I was your age, I was just getting my footing here. You’re right when you say a lot of people here are terrified of doing something wrong. I was one of them for a while. They’ll figure their stuff out. We all do.”

“There’s pretty much nothing that goes normally in this place, is there?”

“Not a single thing.”

She grins again. “Thanks for listening. I guess I’m missing home a bit. And all the talking.”

Josh knows exactly what to do. “We can talk.”

There is no disguising the joy that washes over her. “Yeah?” The melancholy Pamela of a few minutes ago is long gone.

“Yeah, let’s talk. I’ve got twenty minutes 'til my next meeting. You’re from Atlanta, right?” Pamela nods. “What’s home like this time of year?”

Nineteen minutes later, Josh is all but sprinting to his Ways and Means meeting. learned that Pamela has an older sister, that her favorite basketball team is the Miami Heat, and that she’d never been north of the Carolinas until moving to D.C. for this job.

**Now ---**

“Why would I be disappointed in you? And by ‘already,’ do you mean you’re expecting it of me sometime soon?”

“No, I just—I just need this to go well.”

“It is going well. You’re doing fine. You can probably afford to cut your hours down a bit, or start delegating more. I don’t need you burning out in the first few weeks.”

He shakes his head. “Everything’s already blowing up in my face.”

“Whaddya mean? Nothing’s happened yet. You’re not getting shit from Lockmore or Lynch, are you? Because you were just doing your job, and I’ll–”

“No, it’s not Lockmore or Lynch. It’s Robin." He pauses. "The engagement’s off. She’s going back to California.”

“She’s le—Robin’s _leaving_?” Josh balks. Sam nods. “Is that the problem? Do you need to go, too? Sort things out?”

Sam stares at some point behind Josh and takes a long, thoughtful breath.

“You know,” he grimaces, “it felt wrong—for a long time it felt wrong, but I ignored it. After Lisa, after the 47th, how could Robin and my salary and summer in January be wrong? But I knew it was coming, so it doesn’t hurt that badly at all. And I hate that it doesn’t hurt. I hate that I’m more upset about it not hurting. Because then I have to ask myself, what have I been doing for the last four years? Where has my head been? Why, when my fianceé leaves, do I not really care?”

“Sam, I don’t know what to say. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You didn’t ask.”

“I’m asking now.”

Sam twists his water glass around—he hasn’t touched it until now, and the condensation is pooling on the table.

Josh keeps pushing. “There’s more to it than that, isn’t there? Why aren’t you telling me what’s really wrong? You’ve been closed off and I think you have been avoiding me. Us.”

Sam doesn’t answer.

“Do you need to go back to California?” Josh asks.

“No.”

“Then why are you acting like this?”

Without looking up from the glass, Sam snaps, “Because you didn’t call.”

**Earlier / 6:45 p.m. ---**

Josh’s schedule is beyond repair this evening. Ways and Means ran late, pushing back his next two phone calls, and he’s twenty minutes late to meeting Adam, Bram and Edie in the Roosevelt Room. But there’s not much to hear—taking into account Kazakhstan and all of the short-term issues they must deal with, all of them are confident that putting Santos’ education plan on hold is the best thing for them. Josh reluctantly agrees.

Sam is noticeably absent from the meeting. Adam says he took a last-minute phone call. Josh is growing agitated.

The only thing he needs to be on-time for is his final check-in with the president at 6:45, so he thanks the other staffers for their work and speedwalks back to the Oval, taking a few even breaths on his side of the closed door before crossing the threshold.

Santos is ready for him, sitting in the armchair closest to the colonnade. “Josh! Perfect timing.”

“Good evening, sir.” He sits across from him, glad all the rushing at least got him here without issue.

“Tell me about Sam, Josh.”

This is...serendipitous. Perhaps just odd. “Sam, sir?”

“Seaborn. What was he like as Deputy Communications Director?”

Josh doesn’t need a spare second to recall that info. “Dedicated. Diligent. Passionate and idealistic, but not naïve. He could compose a speech in real-time, he could just speak it into existence. He’d exhaust every option and then some before ever giving up. He still would.”

Santos nods, arms still folded over his chest.

“Sam made a very good first impression during the transition,” he says. “He proved himself more than capable of doing the job. But as soon as we moved in here and it all became official, well...”

“What, sir?”

“I was honestly hoping you could tell me. He seems out of it. Closed off. Uninspired. I thought maybe keeping his head down is more his style, but from what you’ve just said, that doesn’t seem to be the case.”

“Uh, no, sir. He’s been working very hard, but he has been...absent, I suppose.”

He’s not imagining anything. Sam is acting odd. If Santos noticed, it’s absolutely certain.

“Is there an assignment we can give him, some project he can spend a few months on? To breathe some life back into him.”

It clicks like a key slotting into place. Josh knows exactly how to snap Sam out of it.

“Sir,” he starts, “I think I know what the issue is. And I think I have a solution.”

A few minutes later, Sam’s assistant, Carly, a lovely woman in her late fifties with Shirley Temple curls, greets Josh with a wide smile in the cubicle Donna used to call home.

“How you doin, hon?” she beams. 

“Great, Carly. Is he busy?” he replies, pointing at Sam’s closed door. 

“He’s on the phone with Senator Flint.”

“Still? It’s been what, two hours?”

Carly shrugs, and Josh makes an executive decision. He breaks away from Carly’s desk and opens the door without a word.

Sam, with his phone tucked into his shoulder, looks up in surprise, frowns, and gestures with his free hand to the phone in a very _in case you didn’t notice the obvious_ motion.

Josh stops just in front of his desk and plucks the phone right out of Sam’s hand.

“Hi, Senator, this is Josh Lyman. Listen, I need to steal Sam for just a minute, he’ll call you right back.” And he drops the phone back onto the receiver.

Sam just glares at him, jaw set and mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Busy day?” Josh asks.

“What was that?”

“I’ve been trying to get five minutes with you all day, but I can make this take one,” Josh replies. “Adam, Bram and Edie don’t think it’s smart to spend time on education right now.”

“I’d agree with them.”

“Well I disagree. I think we have to do it now, right now. We have, conservatively, a year and a half to roll it out. We don’t know what the makeup of Congress will be after the midterms. We gotta get this through as soon as possible.”

“I understand, but–,”

“I’m putting you in charge of it, Sam.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Me?”

“Start putting a team together. I want a proposal on my desk in three months. We’re announcing this at the State of the Union.”

He picks the phone up off the receiver and holds it out for Sam, who wordlessly takes it, and then Josh turns to leave. But then he has one last idea.

“Okay, one minute wasn’t actually enough,” he starts, turning back to Sam, “but I’m not gonna make the senator wait. Have dinner with me.”

“Fine.”

“8:00, at Clyde’s.”

Sam is already dialing Flint back, focused on the keypad. “Okay.”

“Okay.” And Josh takes his leave, shutting the door behind him.

**Now ---**

“You never called. _No one_ called. I stayed in California because I felt like a huge fuck-up, and because it felt like the natural conclusion to my career in politics. And no one said otherwise, not Toby, or CJ, or _you_ —so in California I stayed.”

Josh is ready to defend himself. He’s got the facts and figures at the ready. He’s thought about this conversation a hundred times, and he has a laundry list of excuses prepared. Things got busy. Zoey. Hoynes. Bingo Bob. The shutdown. SCOTUS. Donna. Israel and Pakistan. Leo. China. Santos. Toby. Leo again. It’s not like they were twiddling their thumbs for four years. 

But this isn’t a debate. This is Sam.

“I’m sorry.”

Sam blinks, and then his angry facade cracks, shoulders slumping. “You never called!” he repeats.

“No, I didn’t. I’m sorry, Sam.” _I should have said something._

“We used to handwrite each other letters because email hadn’t been invented yet, but all of a sudden you can barely pick up the damn phone? Even the phones are in our pockets now! Hell, the emails are in our pockets, too!”

“I know. I’m sorry. I know.” He’s apologized more to Sam Seaborn in this conversation than he has to anyone else in the last several years.

“Do you mean you _knew_ , or you know _now_?”

“C’mon, don’t do that. Look—we all felt the Sam-shaped hole when you left. Nothing was ever the same. I thought you staying out there meant that whatever you’d had here, that we,” he gestures to himself and vaguely around the booth, “weren’t what you needed anymore. Or wanted.”

“For a while, it _wasn’t_ ,” he snaps, and there isn’t nearly enough ambient sound in this restaurant this late on a Wednesday evening to mask how sad Sam’s anger is. “Out there, with Robin, I was perfectly content. You know why I was so short with you back in November? Because as soon as I saw you, I knew the last four years were going to mean _nothing_. I knew everything was going to be turned on its head all over again.”

Josh sees an opening, a fault in Sam’s armor, and goes for it.

“But you weren’t _happy_ . That’s what’s bothering you so much. You’re meant to be working _here_ . You’re happy here. You _belong_ here.”

“Josh—,” Sam closes his fist around the napkin and folds his arms tightly over each other on the table, “I can’t fuck this up. I can’t. I’ve tried to leave. I’ve tried other things, tried using my law degree, tried getting married. Twice. You’re right, I do keep coming back here. At least I _think_ I’m supposed to be here. It seems the universe certainly won’t let me have anything else. But Josh, if I can’t do this, I don’t—I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

They fall into an uncertain, weighty silence. Josh had been so sure that Sam was pulling away because he wanted to leave, that this arrangement wasn’t going to work and that California is where he needs to be. He thought Sam had his mind made up and wouldn’t be swayed. But the reality is, Sam—for the first time in Josh’s memory—seems completely unsure of himself, of his career, of his place in the world. And Josh isn’t sure he can convince Sam to stay where he doesn’t think he belongs.

“I know you weren’t on the campaign,” Josh starts, “and you don’t know the other senior staffers that well yet, but it’s gonna happen. And we don’t have to pretend this is the Bartlet administration. We’re gonna do this our way. We’re gonna work hard, and we’re gonna change people’s lives. I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t think you could do it.

“You’re not gonna fuck up, Sam.” He reaches over and grips Sam’s forearm. “We’re all gonna make mistakes, I’m telling you that now. _Big_ ones. _All_ of us. But you’re not gonna fail. I’m not gonna let you. If you think this is where you’re supposed to be, I’ll help you prove it. Okay?”

Sam stares at where Josh’s hand still holds his arm, then looks, for the first time the whole night, straight into Josh’s eyes. And he smiles. “Okay.”

Josh cracks his own first smile of the evening. “Okay.” He gives Sam’s arm a final, affirming squeeze before pulling it back and grabbing his water.

“You’re lucky,” Sam says. “Your career path is so clear-cut, and I envy you having it all figured out.”

Josh rests his chin against the rim of his glass. “Oh, trust me when I say I do _not_ have it all figured out.”

“What do you mean?”

Shit. The thought hadn’t occurred to him, but he could tell Sam right now. Just like ripping off a bandage.

“I, uh–” he starts, struggling to string two coherent thoughts together, but their server returns with their food before he gets the chance.

“Sorry for the wait, guys,” she says, setting her tray down and placing the bowls of soup in front of them. Josh had forgotten they were still waiting for it. “Thanks for being patient. Enjoy!”

She walks away, and Josh finally discovers what the soupe du jour is.

“Sam.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s clam chowder.”

“Yeah.”

It’s Josh’s favorite. “You bastard,” he grins. “You knew.”

Sam doesn’t confirm or deny. He just stirs his chowder and says, “I told you it’d be fine.”

**Earlier / 8:27 p.m. ---**

“Pamela! Pamela, did you put my call sheet in my bag?”

“Middle pouch,” she replies, frowning at her phone. “Wait a second, what—Josh, what time was your reservation for? It’s at 9:00, right?”

“8:00.”

She gasps like a drowning man. “ _Josh_.”

“I know!” he laments, flipping closed briefing book after briefing book.

“It’s nearly 8:30!”

“I _know,_ Pamela! Ways and Means threw my whole day off.”

“I’m calling him,” she says. “Should I call him?”

“No, it’s fine, just get me tomorrow’s–,” Pamela holds out a stack of folders, “–and do I have the–,” she drops all 600 pages of the federal budget onto his desk with a _thwack_ that rattles his pencil cup. “Thanks. You can go home.”

She flashes him a double OK and turns around with a grin, crossing through the door back to her desk as Lou squeezes in past her.

Josh shoves the budget and other folders into his backpack. “Lou, hi. Where were you all day?”

“In my damn office, which you’d know if you’d visit once in a while. Listen, you got two minutes?”

“I have minus forty-five minutes.” He plucks his coat off the rack and snaps his fingers to catch Pamela’s attention. “Hey, watch for ice on the metro stairs, it’s gonna get cold again tonight.”

“Will do,” she calls, pulling her bag over her shoulder. “Night!” 

“ _Two minutes_ , Josh. It can’t wait. I need your big head thinking about this with the budget deadline coming up.”

Josh wraps his scarf around his neck and sighs. “What is it, Lou?”

“Baker’s confirmation.” 

“What about it?”

“The margin of votes. It doesn’t make sense. It was supposed to be nearly impossible.” She rubs her brow and sighs. “I think they let us have this. The Republicans. They... I don’t know, _gave_ us this. And I don’t think it’ll be so easy next time.”

Josh slings his backpack over his shoulder and rubs his hand over his mouth.

“Lou, I think you’re right.”

**Now ---**

They sit and talk and eat soup until the dining room closes at 10:30, when their very kind server has to politely ask them to leave. The slushy mess at the foot of the entryway has frozen over, and the blast of cold air as they step out onto the sidewalk burns their cheeks.

“I’m glad we got to talk things out,” Josh says, holding his hand out.

“Me too,” Sam replies. He considers Josh’s hand, ignores it, and pulls Josh into a hug instead.

It’s not big and loud and over the top. There are no manly pats to the back—it’s not a performative display of affection. This is entirely for the two of them.

Josh knows logically that even the closest of friends can drift apart. People who spend every waking moment with each other can suddenly find themselves driven apart by time, space, or circumstance. It’s the ones who are able to find their ways back together and reconnect like no time has passed, no distance has been overcome, that are special.

Josh hasn’t held or been held by Sam in years. It’s been _years_. And it’s like it always was. Everything around them has changed except the way Sam feels in his arms.

Sam has to walk west to go home, and Josh mostly north, so they part ways right at the door with promises to see each other in less than eight hours.

As Josh crosses Potomac Street, snow begins to fall around him. And Josh feels awake. He feels wide awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “And the night smells like snow. Walking home for a moment you almost believe you could start again. And an intense love rushes to your heart, and hope. It’s unendurable, unendurable.”  
> — Franz Wright, closing lines to “Night Walk” from God’s Silence
> 
> ***
> 
> I literally can't believe how long this chapter got. This could've been a fic all by itself. Trust me when I say it's been a literal labor of love—I wanted to get this conversation RIGHT!!
> 
> God if you think I'm giving Sam major issues, just wait for Josh in the next chapter bc *bachman-turner overdrive voice* you ain't seen nothin' yet!!!
> 
> Catch me on tumblr reblogging a million gifs and talking to myself :-) @welcometo-yourworld


	4. Miles to Go, Promises to Keep

Josh shoots awake with a gasp, heart hammering against his ribs, arms shaking with the effort of holding him upright. He’s not thinking but loud and harried thoughts worm their way into his head anyway,  _ I’m sorry, I’ve ruined it, I fucked it all up, I’m sorry it’s my fault I shouldn’t have done that it won’t happen again I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m— _

A siren in the distance slowly fades in and slowly fades back out, pulling Josh’s attention with it, until the room is silent except for his heaving breaths. His eyes finally focus on his closet doors, then the tie on his dresser, then the alarm clock on his side table and its bright red numbers reading 3:38am, and he grips the sheets and smells the frozen chicken dinner he microwaved a few hours ago and hears the furnace tick-tick-ticking in the corner. He takes a much deeper breath, through his nose this time, feeling his lungs working with him again, and exhales for eight deliberate seconds like his therapist taught him years ago.

“Okay,” he sighs. “Okay.”

He knows how this works, how his adrenaline-filled body won’t let him fall back asleep, so he tosses the blankets off, pulls on an old t-shirt from the floor, and shuffles into the living room. He already forgets what he’d been dreaming about, whatever had been swirling around in his head—instead he just feels the dread and anxiety that fueled them.

He flips the wall switch and fills the room with light, then turns the TV to the Science Channel, and the tail-end of whatever episode of How It’s Made that’s playing fills the room with blissfully distracting sound. He turns the kitchen light on, too, and starts brewing a pot of coffee as he listens to the narrator soothingly explain the finer processes of manufacturing backhoes.

If his timing is right this morning, he can shower and get dressed just as the coffee finishes brewing and still have a few minutes to toast a bagel before the Early Start show on CNN comes on at 4:00.

He wanders back toward the bathroom and starts the hot water. He knows he’ll do it in time. He always does. He will eat his bagel, watch a few minutes of news, beat the line at Starbucks, and have several briefing books read and tasks on his to-do list finished well before he greets the president.

Experts say it takes 30 days to start forming a habit. If that’s the case, Josh is an unwilling expert at this particular morning routine.

He hasn’t set his alarm clock since the Inauguration. He hasn’t had to.

***

This winter is harsh. 

January was relentlessly cold. There have been bright and sunny days, and February has been pushing back sunset minute by minute, but more snow blanketed the capital in the last month than during all of the last year. 

The West Wing, both the physical building and all the people within, has been more of a refuge from the outside world than Josh’s own apartment. It’s warm, it’s inviting, and it has oh so many distractions that keep him out of his own head.

February is nearing its end, now, and this last week sees both Santoses embarking on their first official ventures outside the White House.

It’s  Wednesday , and the president is leaving for his diplomatic trip first. Josh is riding in the Beast with him, nursing his third coffee of the morning and triple-checking his agenda, as they and the rest of the motorcade drive toward Andrews. It’s barely half-past seven and the sky is a pale lavender. The Potomac is bouncing back the headlights of each passing car. The world is cold yet calm as they cross into Maryland.

“I’ve been thinking about getting a dog,” Santos declares over the muffled hum of the tires on the pavement.

“That’s great, sir,” Josh replies, flipping the schedule closed with a flick of his wrist. “I want you to go over the main talking points about Middle Eastern security with Sam and Bram on the plane.”

“The kids really want a dog. Especially Miranda. It’s a big decision, so I’ve been trying to weigh the pros and cons.”

“Well you can do that on the plane ride back. On the plane ride there, you also need to review the section on Israel and Palestine–”

“So far the cons outweigh the pros. The pros being that the kids can finally have a dog, the cons being that Mrs. Santos absolutely does not want a dog.”

“That’s a real conundrum, sir. Might I also remind you it’s especially important that you thank President Renaud for his continued–”

“His  _ continued and steadfast support, his generous supplement of troops and resources, and his unwavering faith in our two nations’ enduring alliance _ .”

Josh nods. “I will look into getting a dog.”

“You will?”

The limo glides to a stop on the tarmac and the plane that will momentarily become Air Force One awaits its passengers across the runway.

“I will have someone look into getting a dog,” Josh clarifies. He and the president emerge from the limo and are greeted with the persistently bitterly cold air, the low rumble of the engines and the smells of rubber and jet fuel. “Your chariot awaits. Knock ‘em dead, Mr. President.”

“Good man, Josh. See you on Friday.” Santos claps him on the shoulder and sets off for the plane and the line of press. Adam is already there with Bram to field questions.

The rest of the cars pull up and Josh makes a beeline for one in particular. As soon as it comes to a stop, he knocks on the window and opens the back door for its passenger. Sam grins up from the seat.

“ _ Bonjour _ , Joshua,” he says, springing out of the car in his beat-up leather bomber jacket. The wind is picking up again, ruffling his hair and the tail of Josh’s coat.

“Gesundheit. Make sure you go through the main talking points about Middle Eastern security with him on the plane.”

“Got it.”

“And Israel and Palestine, and to thank President Renaud for his continued–”

“–his continued support of the peace mission, I got it, Josh.”

Josh finally allows himself a breath. “You got it.”

“ _ Oui _ . Yes I do. Why do you still look worried?”

Josh frowns at the group assembled in front of the plane. “This trip is a total boys’ club, isn’t it?”

“Not entirely,” Sam says.

As if on cue, the last two members of the president’s entourage emerge from their car. Otto and Elsie speed walk toward the plane already in hysterics over something on Elsie’s phone, their laughter echoing across the base.

Sam nods toward them. “We have Elsie. She even speaks French.”

If Josh were frowning any harder, he’s sure his jaw would start cramping up.

“I know it’s his first time abroad as president,” Sam continues, “and you not being there might be a bit stressful for you, but he’ll do fine. He’s got us to steer him clear of international disaster.”

“Okay. Okay.” Josh rubs a hand over his face. “Meanwhile back home it’s me, Pamela, Lou, Edie, Amy, Donna, the First Lady, Annabeth–”

“You’ll be surrounded by the most capable women in D.C. Don’t overthink it. And hey, Ted and Gary will be around.”

Josh aims a jab at Sam’s shoulder, which he dodges with ease. “Go get on the plane, Seaborn.”

Sam only gets a few steps in before Josh calls after him again. “And keep those kids off their phones, will you? Tell them to look up once in a while and enjoy the sights. It’s not every day you get an all expenses paid trip to the City of Love.”

Sam frowns. “Lights.”

“Huh?”

“Paris is the City of Lights.”

Josh waves him off. “Whatever.  _ Adios _ .”

Sam smiles again and continues his march toward the plane.

Josh gives the group one last wave and clambers back into the car as soon as the president disappears inside Air Force One; the car merges back onto 495 before the plane even taxis to the runway.

***

The weather is not all that has made this winter harsh. 

The problem is that he has too much time on his hands. Time for thoughts to stray and spiral, for worries to creep in. When those thoughts start hanging over him like a cloud, there is time to indulge in habits he knows aren’t good for him, like tugging at his hair until his scalp aches, or drinking coffee until he loses his appetite, or listening to conservative talk radio until his blood pressure spikes.

It’s not like he isn’t busy—he is so  _ unbelievably _ busy—but there was hardly time to breathe on the campaign, let alone think. Now all he does is think. And think. And think.

***

The White House Counsel’s office is not oft-visited by Josh, nor anyone else, unless absolutely necessary. Both parties like this arrangement and hope to keep it that way. Nonetheless, after returning to the West Wing, Josh wastes no time seeking out the first woman to ever hold the job. One of the very capable D.C. women he left out of his caffeine-fueled spiel at the air base.

The impressive wooden door is open. Inside is Ainsley Hayes, carefully spooning sugar into a pastel-pink coffee mug, her face scrunched up in concentration.

He knocks lightly on the doorframe. “Morning, Ainsley.”

“Josh!” she smiles. “Wow! Two chiefs of staff in one day? What did I do to deserve all this attention?”

Josh walks in and stops beside her at the makeshift kitchenette she’s crammed into the space between two filing cabinets. “Two?”

“Donna came by first thing this morning. Coffee?” She lifts up the pink mug. Josh nods and takes it.

“Nice digs,” he says. Her old  _ Pirates of Penzance  _ poster is hanging on the wall over the coffee cart.

“It’s no Steam Pipe Trunk Distribution Venue,” Ainsley replies, pouring herself another mug, “but I’m sure I’ll get used to the climate-controlled air and well-balanced acoustics eventually.” She sits down at a small table next to a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf that’s fit to burst with law texts and encyclopedia sets. “So what can I do for you?”

“I’m really just here for–”

“Don’t be rude, Josh, please have a seat,” she interrupts, gesturing at the other chair at her little table. He blinks, and then he does. “See?” she smiles, “now we’re having a conversation.”

“But we were having a conversation.”

“But it wasn’t polite. Now we’re face-to-face, speaking  _ to _ each other.”

“Okay. Well, you can consider this an informal house call. I’m just here to check in.”

“Fantastic.” 

“How has your first month been?”

She sweeps her curtain of platinum blonde hair over her shoulder. “I can see why President Bartlet went through about one White House counsel for every year of his tenure.”

“I think that’s a bit of an overstatement, but can I consider that a neutral sentiment on the matter?”

“You’ve actually caught me on one of my lighter days, but I think you should come back in another month, pending no matters of criminal exploitation or legal missteps occur in the meantime.”

“That sounds fair and can be arranged. So all is well?” 

“As well as all can be after a few weeks.”

“Great.” He drains half his coffee. “What was Donna doing here?”

“Mrs. Santos is narrowing the focus of her main initiative as First Lady.”

“Yeah, she’s making her first official speech at the Texas women thing tomorrow.”

“The Democratic Women Voters of Houston conference.”

“Yeah, great, but what was Donna doing  _ here _ ?”

“Well, Mrs. Santos is planning on advocating for the legal rights of children, so Donna asked me to brief her on relevant cases and other such precedents for current legislation protecting children's rights. She was particularly interested in the Convention on the Rights of the Child.”

This is news to Josh.

“No offense to your legal prowess and many accolades, but Donna knows there’s a whole team dedicated to researching legislation for her and the First Lady, right?”

“I told her so, but she was quite interested in my opinion on the matter. I suppose that when it comes to discussing the legality of the first lady’s office ratifying a decades-old United Nations treaty, I just have that  _ je nes sais quois _ .”

The president takes one trip to Paris and suddenly the whole West Wing is speaking the language. Maybe Josh should have taken French instead of Intermediate Typing in undergrad. But then again, his 101 words-per-minute is unmatched even by most of the assistants. 

He drains the other half of the coffee.

“Okay. Okay, well, uh, it was great talking to you, Ainsley, but I have another meeting to get to.”

“Thank you for stopping by, Josh.” She rises with him and holds her hand out for the empty mug. Josh makes sure to push his chair in before leaving. Best to be polite.

He knows he’s not going crazy. But he stops in the door just the same.

“Ainsley?”

“Yes?”

“The First Lady can’t ratify the CRC, can she?”

She gives him a very patient smile. “No, Josh.”

“Right. Yeah. I know that. Um, see you around. Thanks for the coffee.”

Back again in his corner of the West Wing, Pamela is rifling through one of the filing cabinets. Josh leans up against it and Pamela keeps flipping through folders.

“Good morning,” she says.

“Get Donna in here as soon as you can.” 

She ignores him.

“Sorry, sorry—good morning, Pamela, my assistant who assists me with things.”

“Morning, boss. How can I assist you?”

“By getting Donna in here as soon as you can.” He breaks for his office, then doubles back again. “And get me a copy of the Convention on the Rights of the Child.”

***

Josh is at his conference table, watching the local weather report about yet another cold front moving in this weekend, when Donna arrives.

“I’m starting to think it’s never going to warm up, huh?” she says, taking the seat opposite him.

“Sure seems like it.” He mutes the TV. “How’re you doing?”

“Alright. I still have to pack. So does the First Lady. And my leg hurts, today.”

“Have you made an appointment, yet?” Josh is referring to her physical therapist.

“Yeah. You?” Donna is referring to his psychiatrist.

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

She fixes her bangs. “You wanna tell me why I’m here?”

He slides the CRC across the table. Donna’s eyes flicker down to it and then right back up to Josh.

“When were you going to tell me the First Lady is planning to hang this over Congress’ head? Can she even do that?”

“I’m telling you now, and that’s what I’m here to find out.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Dammit, Donna.”

“Okay, see,” she starts, pointing a finger at him, “this is why it’s better that we’re working on opposite sides of the building, now.”

“C’mon, we’re supposed to work together on these things. I had to find out from Ainsley of all people?”

“She thinks it’s a good idea. And this isn’t some plot we concocted to personally piss you off, this is the First Lady’s politics.”

“There’s no way Ainsley Hayes, Perfect Republican, said that.”

“She might actually have said it’s not the ‘worst idea she’s ever heard,’ but that double-negative makes it a positive to me.”

“It’s a treaty. The president can sign it as a grand gesture, but it needs a two-thirds vote to be ratified in the Senate.”

“We know that.”

“It’ll never happen.”

“We know that, too.”

He holds his hands out. “So what’re you doing?” he deadpans. “How much of her speech is centered around this thing?”

“An insignificant amount may or may not be dedicated to referencing the accomplishments of literally every other U.N. nation that has ratified the CRC.”

Josh shakes his head. “Don’t start with the double-negatives, you know that’s cheap talk.”

“I’m not talking to a reporter, I’m talking to you. You know exactly what I’m saying.”

“Can I see the speech?”

“I’ll have Janine send you a copy. But we’re not changing anything.”

“If the First Lady even name-drops the CRC, if she says the word 'treaty,' then the impact of her speech will be practically null. The treaty is all anyone will talk about, the only thing the press will cover, and will obscure any reputation she tries to establish.”

Donna folds her arms over her chest. “I think you’ll have a much more productive conversation if you speak to her about it directly.”

“If the president were here, I’d have him speak to her.” Donna doesn’t react to that. “Fine. Can you set that up?”

“The only free time she has is tomorrow morning before we fly out.”

“Donna,” he balks. She shrugs. “Your flight leaves at six.” She nods.

He drags his hands over his face. He needs another cup of coffee.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay. I’ll tell her to expect you around 5:30.” She slides the CRC back across the table and stands up to leave. “You’re still gonna record the new episode of  _ Psych _ for me tomorrow night?”

“Yeah, when’s it on, nine?”

“Yep.”

“No prob.”

“Thanks, Josh.” She pats him on the shoulder as she leaves.

***

He thinks about the staff, the Senate Republicans, Santos’ approval ratings (which are hovering around 53%), the media, the wars masquerading as peace-keeping, and that he has to email CJ and Toby soon.

He thinks about how he let Donna, the most ambitious and capable person he’s ever met, and one of the best friends he’s ever had, slip right through his hands. No, that’s being too gracious. He pushed her away. And she was right to leave. And he still can’t believe she didn’t stay away.

He thinks about Leo a lot. How he didn’t get to say goodbye, or thank him for everything he taught him. He can’t remember if the last conversation they had was before or after the polls had closed in the east.

***

The exciting part of the president’s trip to France—the fancy dinner, the socializing, the Parisian desserts and wine—begins at 7:00 Central European Standard Time, which means at 1:00pm EST, Josh is in his office channel-surfing, scouring the news networks for coverage.

CNN is replaying a briefing Adam delivered earlier in the day, full of witticisms and quips, both straightforward answers and answers that talk around the original questions so much they make even Josh’s head spin.

The BBC has live footage of Santos and company being greeted by Renaud and his company at the Elysée palace, a building that, depending on one’s tastes, either puts the White House to shame or stands as a stark reminder of France’s gilded, monarchical past.

Everything looks fine until Josh notices Adam on his phone, so he has Pamela put him through to the only adult on the trip.

“ _ Sam Seaborn. _ ”

“Hi, it’s me. Listen, Adam–”

“ _ Josh, he’s killing it with the press. They, and several of Renaud’s aides, think he’s a riot. Apparently he also speaks conversational French. _ ”

“Yeah, I saw his briefing. Do me a favor and remind him he’s the press secretary and not the host of The Tonight Show.”

“ _ I thought you might say something like that. _ ”

“And get him off the damn phone! It looks bad.”

“ _ How—how do you know that? _ ”

“You’re on the BBC, dude.”

“ _ Ah. That makes sense. Hmph. _ ”

Josh watches Sam put a hand on his hip and look around to the onlookers and cameras. “What?”

“ _ Well, now I’m also on the phone on TV. _ ”

“You’re having a very important discussion with the chief of staff.”

“ _ Right. Okay, here’s a very important question: do you think I can get the president to try a snail tonight? _ ”

“No way.”

“ _ What? Why not? I’m sure he’d try one. _ ”

“No, I’m telling you he won’t.”

“ _ I bet you I can convince him. _ ”

“I’ll take that bet because I know he won’t do it.”

“ _ You sound so sure of yourself. _ ”

“I am sure of myself. Because I’m right.” 

“ _ Then what will you wager, Joshua? _ ”

“If you can get the president to eat a whole snail, I’ll get you lunch from that Thai place.”

“ _ And if the escargot is an es-car-no? _ ”

“Don’t—wow, you know how bad that was, right?”

“ _ I won’t apologize for it. If you win? _ ”

“If I win, which I will, because I’m right, you have to bring me back a souvenir.”

“ _ Done. Because I won’t have to, because I will get the president to eat a snail. _ ”

Josh feels a shift in the air beside him. His assistant is standing in the door, urging him to get back to work without words. “Listen, Pamela’s here and she’s giving me the look. I gotta get going in a second. Okay, now she’s pointing at her watch. Keep the young ones engaged and keep the president–”

“ _ Presidential? _ ”

“Yeah. Bye, Sam.”

“ _ Au revoir _ .”

Josh hangs up and stretches out his arms.

“The staring thing is getting a little creepy.”

“Would you prefer if I talk over your phone calls?”

“No.”

“Alright then. You’re with Sellner in ten.” She glances at the television, where the two presidents are smiling and shaking hands, and her mouth twists up in that way it does when she’s mulling over whether to say something or not.

“Spit it out.”

“I’m not the biggest fan of the French.”

“Me neither, but I wouldn’t be caught dead saying that while the president is in France.”

Pamela shrugs. Josh continues, “What’s your beef?”

“I have plenty of cousins in Haiti who could explain it better than I. What’s your beef?”

Josh nods. “Mom’s side of the family lived in France in the 20s and 30s. I might have more cousins today if they didn’t.”

She nods back. “Sellner in ten minutes.”

***

He thinks about Sam, too. 

For all the grief Josh got about never calling him, Sam was the one who took a red-eye to D.C. to clear out his apartment after the special election and went right back to California without so much as a goodbye.

Josh had to find out from Will Bailey.  _ Will Bailey _ told him that Sam would not be coming back. Josh hadn’t even asked him, he’d asked Toby, but Will Bailey had felt the need to answer while standing in the doorway of Sam’s old office. Toby had just cleared his throat in agitation and looked at the floor.

He thinks about the email he’d started writing the week after Will Bailey told him that Sam would not be coming back. How it started as a perfectly polite message, was rewritten into a scathing, ugly attack on Sam’s character, was rewritten into a pleading mess of  _ how could you leave _ , was finally banished to the trash by Donna when she caught him staring at it with bleary eyes and a beer in-hand late on a Saturday night.

He thinks about how easily Sam left. He thinks about how easily he could do it again.

Josh does not set his alarm.

***

The First Lady’s speech is not as inflammatory as Josh had imagined. Nor does it mention the CRC by name, or even the word ‘treaty.’ Instead, it is a cutting reprimand of past Congresses, of their failures to recognize that children in this nation endure horrors that many adults could not withstand, and that they do need special protections.

They are words that will absolutely resonate with the Democratic Women Voters of Houston. Not so much with the current Congress.

As Donna and the East Wing spend the last thirty minutes before their flight making sure everything is in order, Josh pushes through the French doors in Ronna’s corner of the building out onto the colonnade, rounds the corner, and finds Helen Santos—bundled into a long puffy coat, her hair in its signature French twist—gazing out over the Rose Garden.

“Mrs. Santos.”

She smiles as he approaches. “Good morning, Josh.”

‘Morning’ is a generous way to describe the still-pitch-black sky. Josh has already been wide awake for a couple of hours and the sun still won’t rise for a couple more. If you don’t eat dinner and only sleep for a few hours, is it really a new day? Had it ever even been night? 

“Donna said I could find you here.”

“I come out here mostly for some peace and quiet. It’s funny—I’m responsible for the most famous rose garden in the country, and the truth is I never cared much for roses. Don’t tell anyone, of course.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

“Oh Josh, please, it’s Helen. No one says my name, anymore, it’s only ‘Mommy’ from the kids and ‘dear’ from my husband.”

“Yes, ma’am. Helen. Yes, Helen. Um. I read your speech. You’ve got talented writers in the East Wing.”

“Thank you, Josh, but I know why you’re here. I want to reassure you that I’m not slipping the CRC under the majority leader’s door tomorrow.”

“I didn’t think you were. But I need to know if this is something you’re seriously considering incorporating into your agenda.”

“You and I both know that I can’t ratify the CRC.”

“You and I also know that wasn’t an answer to my question.”

“I’m not a politician. I’m a mother. If there’s one thing I know, it’s patience. Donna and I have discussed this many times and with many people. My platform will be centered around children, families, and their rights and safety. But my implementation will be via a...,” she pauses and flip-flops her hand as she picks her words, “a measured persistence.”

“A measured persistence,” Josh repeats. Helen and her cool head absolutely set the tone for his discussion. They’re speaking with calm, even tones. He’s always admired that quality in her—patience, indeed. He has no desire to get riled up like usual. It’s refreshing.

He continues, “There are some who would argue that holding ourselves accountable to a non-governmental treaty is a slippery slope to undermining our power as a government.”

“Republicans think everything is a slippery slope to the end of democracy and liberty unless it fits their very narrow-minded ideas of what democracy and liberty are.”

“Touché.”

“Regardless, I’m not here to impose myself and my office upon Congress. I’d prefer if Congress could be motivated to craft and pass meaningful legislation protecting our children on their own.”

“Believe me, we’d all prefer if Congress could get their act together on their own. But you have a brilliant mind, Helen,” Josh urges. “You have a platform and the resources to speak out on issues like this and, and pursue your agenda and build out your legacy.”

She smiles again, with warmth and humility. “I don’t need a legacy, Josh. One hundred highly-qualified lawmakers don’t need me telling them what to do. But I’ll be damned if my voice is not heard. And I’ll be damned if none of those one hundred lawmakers, or none of their constituents, share the same ideas that I do.

“Wouldn’t it be incredible if individuals began researching what the CRC is of their own accord? To facilitate their own political awakenings, to discover we’re the only U.N. nation that hasn’t ratified this treaty, and to come to the conclusion on their own that this country is very far behind?

“What I’m really trying to say is, I think there is far more power with the people than with Congress. And if I can reach them, then they can reach their representatives, and we can create change from the bottom up.”

“May I point out that that was spoken like a true politician?”

“I might’ve picked up a few tricks over the years. Being married to the president doesn’t hurt.”

Sensing a mutual agreement has been reached on the matter, Josh pivots. “The president has expressed interest in adopting a dog.”

“Expressed interest? He made Ronna fax me a printout of all the dog rescues and pet shelters in the D.C. metro area.”

“He also said you have expressed a clear disinterest in adopting a dog.”

“According to my sources, I’m outgunned three to one on this.”

“I gotta admit, I have no idea who to talk to about this.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll have Donna look into it.”

“One last thing: Sam and I have a bet.” She tilts her head to the side, interested. “Do you think the president will eat a snail while in Paris?”

“Do I think my husband will  _ eat _ a snail?”

“Yeah.”

In a movement some may say is unbefitting of a First Lady, but very befitting of Helen Santos, she throws her head back and cackles right in the middle of the Rose Garden.

Josh knows he’s already won the bet.

***

Donna texts him when they land in Houston a few hours later. The rest of Thursday passes without incident.

By the time he gets home, the wind chill has dipped into the single digits. He tapes Donna’s show and falls asleep on the couch watching How It’s Made.

He does not set his alarm.

***

Around 11:30 on Friday morning, Pamela tells him that Air Force One has landed back at Andrews. Right on time. Josh tosses the France schedule into the recycling.

By 11:55, the president and his company have returned, parading through the halls complaining about the cold and laughing about Otto’s terrible French accent as he calls out, " _ze boys, zey are back een town!_ " They pass by Josh’s office while he scrolls through Petfinder entries for dogs in the D.C. area. One of them breaks from the group and slips inside.

“It was an es-car- _ no _ ,” Sam deadpans, dropping a small paper bag on Josh’s desk. His hair is windswept, his duffle bag is still slung over his shoulder and his leather bomber jacket is folded over his arm. “I have a meeting in a couple of hours so I’ll be asleep in my office if you need me before then.”

“Told you I’d win. Wait, have—have you not slept?” Josh says, little parcel forgotten. Sam shakes his head. “Sam, it’s Friday. Reschedule the meeting and go home. Why didn’t you sleep?”

“I couldn’t stop thinking about how arbitrarily the time zones were drawn to make London the literal center of the world and I had too many macarons and Otto and Elsie could make conversation with a brick wall if they set their hearts on it.” He rubs his eyes and brushes a hand through his hair, making it stick up everywhere it shouldn’t. “I just have this one meeting and then I’m out of here.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay, I’ll try to make sure that I or anyone else don’t bother you before then.”

“ _ Merci _ . Much appreciated.”

“One second, your–” Josh says, looking pointedly at Sam’s bird nest of hair and miming taming his own down.

Sam quickly combs his hand through it from one side to the other. Now everything is just sticking out in the other direction. “Better?”

Josh clicks his tongue between his teeth and mutters, “No, just–,” before reaching out and tucking the errant flyaway down himself. “There.”

“Thanks.” And Sam goes off to nap.

Josh turns to get back to his search and remembers the little paper bag. He unfurls it and pulls out a fairly weighty wad of tissue paper and bubble wrap. Tearing the protective layers off he uncovers a miniature Eiffel Tower, not more than four inches tall. He turns it over in his hand, feeling the cool metal warm up with his touch. Across the base in bold type reads “JE ❤ PARIS,” and the heart is colored like the French flag.

“ _ Merci _ ,” he smiles, and sets the figurine down next to his pencil cup.

He thinks the rest of today will be a good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   
> But I have promises to keep,   
> And miles to go before I sleep,   
> And miles to go before I sleep.  
> — Robert Frost
> 
> *****
> 
> woohoo! thanks for your patience, all. writing this fic is an utter joy, and reading your comments always makes me smile :')
> 
> some footnotes:  
> • Beth Nolan was the actual first (real) woman to have the white house counsel job (1999-2001) under Bill Clinton, which overlaps w/ "Bartlet's tenure" and the show never said anything about Bartlet having a woman WHC so I just bestowed the fictional honor upon Ainsley. Queen.  
> • if you see inconsistencies with how I capitalize things like first lady and chief of staff no you didn't <3

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> I'm so excited to share this—it's my first work for WW, and it's been a work in progress since last September. This is essentially me taking the reins from Mr. Sorkin and writing my dream season 8 through a much more women-friendly, queer, anti-racist-as-west-wing-can-be, centrism-ain't-always-the-way lens.
> 
> Hope you enjoy coming along for the ride <3


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